I Want To Learn A Love Song
by Behindthebook08
Summary: 'Luna then took the instrument out of its case, revealing a simple light colored guitar. 'Music is important in a child's life—music and love, that's all there is.' Glancing around her, she added, 'And books I suppose, especially in your case.'" Hermione Granger never saw herself ending up in this life, but now that she's here, all she wants to do is learn a love song.


**A/N: Hello once again! It's been a while since I posted anything of significance, but I'm back! This is the first story in a new collection I'm beginning which I've been calling, the Song of My Heart Series. Each story will be based off of a different song, and each story will revolve around a different Hermione/? pairing. If you are interested, please consider following my writing. I will be including some very common pairings, but also exploring many of the less common, and some that are entirely unheard of. It should be a lovely time for all involved!**

**If you're interested in knowing the songs which these are based on (or just this fic in general) consider following me on Twitter under LadyChristineM.**

**Without further ado, I Want To Learn a Love Song (based of of Harry Chapin's song of the same title, with a mash up of The Beatles "Here Comes the Sun").**

* * *

She had spent a year living in a tent, eating transfigured fungus and muddy water. A year running from death eaters, ministry officials, and sell-swords. A year alone.

He never meant to take advantage of her; that much she had always known. They had both been through so much—all they had wanted was a bit of happiness. A dash of joy. A peppering of positive emotion.

As it turned out, he had loved her since she was thirteen. He had loved every frizzy buck-toothed bit of her, and the moment he no longer had to pretend, he was on his knees begging her forgiveness. He apologized for every terrible word he had ever said—every terrible thing he had done—and then he had told her that he loved her.

She would have liked to believe that he couldn't affect her that way. That she _wasn't _your average eighteen year old girl and that a handsome man on his knees wasn't enough to make her suddenly forget everything else—but it had been.

As it turned out, the fairytales and the romance novels had affected even her, the _brightest witch of her age_.

She had forgiven him, just like she had forgiven all the other misled students. She had held him in her arms and let his tears wash away every sin he had committed, and every abuse he had suffered. She had found him beautiful in that moment, raw and real—so different from the man she had known the previous seven years.

It was then that she had seen the pages of her story unfold—the forbidden love, the angst ridden story, and the beautiful true love ending.

He had helped to rebuild the school after the final battle, and she had spent hours talking with him down by the lake. They told each other every small detail of their lives, every dream and every fear.

It hadn't even been six months when they decided to get married—even if it _seemed _crazy, they knew they were right. She was the smartest witch of her age, he was second in their class, and they had both always been far older than their age, hadn't they? The wedding had been unexpected and small, and they had never felt happier.

If she had to make certain sacrifices, she didn't mind. How many sacrifices had she made during the war? And this was different—these sacrifices were for love. And it was worth it for love.

It made sense, if you thought about it. She would stay home and turn the old manor into a real home—she would do the cleaning, cooking, and budgeting while he rebuilt his family business. After it was back on its feet, then she would pursue the masteries she had planned on. Then she would apply into the Department of Mysteries.

She could wait; she could be patient.

And the fact that he didn't want children? That wasn't a problem. She was only eighteen years old, what did she want with children anyways? He preferred a clean and organized life—and children weren't that.

He feared becoming his father. So she wiped away that particular dream because he meant so much more than any of that.

True love, after all, can't be destroyed. It's the most important thing, right?

* * *

Seven years passed.

Seven years of late night business meetings—of promises that it would be her time soon (not that soon seemed to have an expiration date). Seven years of tense Weasley dinners that he didn't want to attend and lavish parties she would rather skip. Seven years of compromises—because neither really wanted to go back to the bickering of their childhood.

Compromise lead to giving in, and giving in lead to ignoring, and ignoring lead to not caring one way or the other. Eventually they simply grew numb to each other.

He still liked the sound of her laugh, and she still loved to see his rare smiles, but neither really tried anymore. Neither really felt _it_ anymore. They were friends, roommates, and business partners.

Why hadn't the books told her that true love could fade?

They had both eventually realized that their friends and family had been right—that it hadn't actually been true love. They had just been two kids swept up at the end of the war, desperate to feel something good. Neither quite regretted their decisions, but neither was happy either. More than anything though, neither had any urge to admit to the world that they had been wrong.

Instead, they lived a frozen life of bearable companionship. They had their nights of passion, but for the most part they left each other alone. She with her books, and he with his business.

Until today.

Today, when she tossed her designer shoes on the floor of a public restroom, locking the door and praying with all she had that she was wrong—that it was just stress.

If he could see her now, he would be enraged. His wealthy wife, the war hero and socialite, crouched over a muggle toilet in her bare feet, peeing on a stick and praying that all of her spellwork had been wrong.

She tossed the offensive item on to the edge of the sink and paced the other side of the small room, trying to will away the tears which were gathering in her eyes—this couldn't be happening.

They were far too smart for this. And besides—when was the last time they had actually had sex?

She nodded to herself, September. It had been the first time in months. They had gotten drunk at their anniversary party and ended up desperately clinging to one another—both trying to feel something, feel anything, for the person whom they had once loved so dearly. It had ended with her crying naked on the floor of their bedroom and him flying off into the night.

They hadn't had sex since.

He didn't want children, and she didn't want children with someone who didn't want children.

She hadn't been planning on running away—she hadn't planned on leaving him or their frigid life. Yet as she huddled in the corner of the small room she recognized that she probably should have—should have left, allowing both of them some small measure of happiness. Now that couldn't happen.

Now her child would need a father.

Now her child would need someone to support it financially, because its _waste_ of a mother had allowed all of her prospects to escape her.

Now the father would feel obligated to raise his child as an heir to the family name.

Now there was no escape.

She crumpled against the well-worn tile wall, limbs quivering as she sobbed—what was she supposed to do?

* * *

It was exactly twelve minutes later that the designer heels of one Mrs. Hermione Malfoy clicked across the small muggle pharmacy, her head held high, her hair impeccable, and her eyes never making contact. She ignored the pitying glances of the women working behind the register.

It didn't matter how wealthy you appeared, or how tall you stood, when a woman hid in a bathroom for fifteen minutes after purchasing a pregnancy test, you knew what was going on.

Hermione walked quickly up to the register, placing the book and vitamins she had gathered on the counter, and glancing over the bulletin board which hung behind it. She wouldn't be making eye contact, and she _certainly_ wouldn't be making conversation. If there was one thing being a celebrity had taught her, it was how to avoid speaking with people.

Most of the ads were unexceptional—a pasta dinner to raise money for a local rugby team, a flyer for a teenager looking to start babysitting, an advertisement claiming the ability to "Make Cash Quick!" They were unremarkable and uninteresting—except for one. One ad shimmered ever so slightly and Hermione smiled slightly at the subtle compulsion charm. "Have a song in your heart?" it read, "Let it out! Guitar Lessons—if interested, call 1606-47251."

"Ma'am," the cashier called, causing Hermione's eyes to dart back to the petite blond cashier.

"Sorry," Hermione apologized, taking her change.

She walked a few steps towards the door, but then turned and delicately tore a number from the flyer, carefully tucking it into her pocket.

* * *

Draco sat across from her sipping at his firewhiskey, his finely tailored suit and robes clashing horribly with the laughably surprised expression he wore. "You want to do _what_?"

She rolled her eyes, "Look, it isn't that crazy of an idea, is it? I miss learning new things—it would only be a couple of hours each week."

"But what on earth are you going to do with a guitar?"

"Well I had hoped to play it—but I suppose I could wear it as a hat, cause all the rage at the next Ministry function," she replied dryly.

Draco glared at her sarcasm, but chuckled lightly nonetheless, "I don't understand, Hermione. Where is this coming from?"

She dragged a hand through her hair, sighing lightly. She needed to tell him. It had been a week, and she had waited far too long already. "I—I've found out I'm pregnant."

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. He dropped his drink, spilling it across his robes and swearing loudly. He banished the drink quickly while coughing, "You—you're what?"

"I'm pregnant Draco."

He cringed at the words, just as she always knew he would. She never had any delusions about him suddenly changing his mind or a loving scene where he spun her around in the air. This was Draco Malfoy's absolute nightmare.

"You—but—how?!"

Hermione chuckled darkly, staring enviously as he summoned another drink, "I'm sure that you understand the mechanics, dear."

"What are you going to do?" He asked quickly, eyes wide.

She raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow in his direction, "I'm going to be the best damn Mum I can be—what did you _think_ I was going to do? Drown it in the river?"

He glared at her, "I wasn't suggesting that—I just wasn't sure what you would think. I mean, wizarding methods of taking care of such things are far more delicate that the muggle methods you've undoubtedly been exposed to. Nothing so barbaric."

Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring the barb. "I always wanted to be a mother. I may have been alright with skipping that part of my future, but I'm not going to give up the chance now that it's here."

He nodded slightly, "Alright," he said weakly, sitting back down on the chair in front of her.

"For what it's worth—I am sorry," she said sadly, "I never intended this; I hope you know that."

"I know, Hermione. You're not that kind of witch." A moment of silence passed between them, before Draco's expression grew confused once more. "What does this have to do with learning to play the guitar?"

Hermione smiled softly, "I want our kids to sing."

"What?"

Hermione shook her head, a small laugh bubbling out, "It sounds ridiculous, I know. But I grew up in a household full of so much love—and my parents used to sing around the house. My father played the piano—it meant a lot to me," She paused for a moment, considering the delicate words she was about to speak. "I'm not under any illusions about us Draco," she said softly. "If our child isn't going to see that kind of love—I at least want them to feel the music."

"Hermione," Draco said, quietly taking her hand in his own, "I _will_ love our child—everything with us aside—I'll love them."

Hermione nodded, "I know you will—but do you understand what I mean?"

He nodded quietly, "It's not going to be some crazy hobo or something—right?"

Hermione laughed loudly, and a brief smile flittered across his stern expression. He may not have loved her anymore—but he still loved to hear her laugh.

* * *

The tall blonde sat atop her kitchen counter, idly swinging her legs and listening to the sound of the Quibbler's press as it slowly churned out papers. The noise had become calming to her over the years, the sound of home, and she smiled lightly as it hummed.

In her hand she held a carefully kept notebook; lists of numbers covered the pages—numbers that few others could understand, but she knew all too well. The number of sales that week, month and year. The number of galleons the old newspaper took to print, the number of galleons it made. The number of days until her loan payments were due and the number of galleons she had left for meals.

She leaned back, allowing the tips of her hair to dance across the countertop, and let a long breath of air free from her lungs. Stepping down from the counter she spun in place slightly, enjoying the slight breeze the flittered through her curtains.

'_Things may not be perfect'_ she mused, '_but at least I've still got the breeze.'_

On a whim, she walked barefoot across the wooden floor, and picked her small cell phone off of the windowsill, glancing doubtfully at it.

She had bought the phone months ago, hoping to make some extra money in the muggle world. Few wealthy witches and wizards were interested in something as trifling as music, but muggle parents and children loved it, and she had hoped to add a few galleons to her miniscule budget. Unfortunately, she had placed her flyers all around London and hadn't gotten a single call.

Apparently she was the only one left with a song in her heart.

She flipped open the hand held device, and was surprised to find a small notification blinking up at her. "One Unheard Voice Message."

Luna's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise obvious in her eyes. She pushed the small button and held the device to her ear.

"You have one unheard message, first unheard message," the automated female voice jingled.

"Hello," a woman greeted, "My name is Hermione Malfoy, and I'm calling to inquire about the flyers you had posted in a local drugstore. I'm interested in possibly employing you. I don't have regular access to a telephone, but you should feel free to owl me. I noticed your compulsion charm—beautifully subtle, by the way. I hope to hear from you soon."

Luna clicked the device shut, her mouth slightly agape. Hermione Malfoy—Hermione Granger, the last woman she had ever expected to hear from after Hogwarts. Certainly the last woman she had expected would be interested in learning to play the guitar.

They had been friends in Hogwarts—in a loose sense. They had shared meals together on occasion, and there was Dumbledore's army. But Hermione was always incredibly serious and determined—something Luna lacked. While they were kind enough to each other Hermione always though Luna a bit silly, and Luna thought Hermione in need of a distraction.

When the war-hero had married Draco Malfoy it hadn't actually surprised Luna as much as most people. She always knew that Hermione would have to have a moment—a moment of recklessness. Draco Malfoy was that moment.

Now Hermione was calling her.

Luna wondered idly if this was a good idea, but dismissed the concern quickly. As was usual for her, she assumed that if she was meant to teach Hermione, she would. And if it was a terrible idea it simply wouldn't work out.

She pulled out a quill and parchment, and began to write.

* * *

A large muggle clock hung above the mantle, and its dreary ticks echoed the click of her sturdy heels against the marble floor. Draco had never understood the need for the clock. Why hang such an eyesore in your home when you could just cast a simple tempus charm?

Hermione had simply let that argument go, and ignored him when he had mocked her the following week when she hung it. She was a muggleborn, no matter how clever of a witch she was, and she appreciated the simplicity of a well hung clock.

As the clock chimed eleven times, the heels suddenly stilled, as did the feet of the woman within them.

Hermione glanced down at herself again, running a nervous hand through the smooth tresses. For the sixth time that morning she regretted casting the straightening spell—but really, how was one expected to style themselves when seeing old school friends for the first time in seven years? How were they expected to act?

Draco tended towards the glamorous and the condescending—as he always had. He sought to prove how far he had come since their years at school. How well rounded, how accepting, and how devastatingly handsome he was.

Hermione wasn't quite so comfortable. She had a certain persona for the press and the ministry—she _was _a Malfoy wife after all. She wore the uncomfortable shoes and the designer robes; she carefully sculpted her hair and wore the extravagant family heirlooms. She was _perfect_.

When with the Weasleys and Harry she was a completely different character all together. She dug through her old clothes to find the more used of her designer jeans, and searched desperately for sneakers. She let her hair curl wildly and never wore make up or jewelry. She was raw and predictable. She was the same girl who had visited them every summer since she was eleven years old.

But Luna Lovegood—how was she supposed to react to that? They hadn't ever really been close. They were friends, of course, and they fought together. But close? No—she didn't think that the blonde would have considered them quite to that point. Luna thought her a bit too serious, and Hermione found Luna to be a smidgeon too eccentric.

But that had been school. That had been before Hermione had tasted reality, and before Luna's father had left her alone in the world. That was before _everything_. Hermione couldn't begin to predict what a meeting with Luna would be like—especially a meeting such as _this_.

Guitar lessons…what had she been thinking?

After much debate, she had worn her serious persona—been the person the press expected her to be, and let herself fall into a comfortable numbness behind the mask of society.

After a painful moment of stilled silence she heard the doorbell ring.

Taking a deep breath she carefully stepped into the front entrance, and opened the door, "Good Morning," she said, a false smile firmly pasted in place.

"Hermione!" A breezy voice sang, "How lovely to see you!" Hermione tried to rearrange her face into something less than surprised when the musical blonde tumbled into her arms, but all she managed was a gasp. Soft slim arms wrapped around her as wispy tendrils tickled her nose.

"Luna," she said, smiling unsurely. "You surely know how to make an entrance."

Luna pulled back slightly, smiling shyly at the petite brunette. "Well, I rather assumed that you would be as nervous as I am—seeing someone after so long, seeing as we were never all that close. So I decided the best plan of action was to break that tension immediately—did it work?"

Hermione chuckled lightly as she watched one rogue piece of her hair spring back into its customary curl, "I think it worked splendidly," she admitted, smiling to realize that the blonde hadn't changed all that much over the years—well, not in her treatment of people at least.

Physically, she was a surprise. Where she had once been small and pale, she was now taller without appearing weak. Her eyes and her smile were alight with a confidence that her younger self had never had, though her hair was still the same golden river it had ever been. Her clothing had matured, if only slightly. Hermione was happy to realize that Luna had abandoned her radish earrings, in favor of some rather pretty feathers, and her butterbeer cork necklace was nowhere to be found. Proof that at least _some _of her delusions in regards to mythical creatures had been given up.

She wore a pale yellow sundress, reminding Hermione of the dress she had worn to Bill and Fleur's wedding, and the bright color danced off of her skin and reflected from her hair. Tucked behind her ear was a bright orange flower, which matched her worn sneakers perfectly.

She held a patched leather guitar case in her hand—brown, faded, and a perfect reminder of why Luna was here. "Do you want to come with me to the library?" Hermione asked softly, hoping that the room would be alright. As much as a library is generally considered silent, it was also Hermione's room all her own, and therefore perfect for something of this sort.

Luna beamed, obviously pleased with the choice of rooms—she had been a Ravenclaw after all, of course she would be comfortable in the library. Hermione led her through the twisting halls of the manor and watched as she eyed the portraits and architecture warily. Hermione cringed, remembering the last time the younger witch had been in this house. "I've made over large portions of the house—completely redone them, and you can't even tell that they were ever different. The—the basement, the ballroom, the bedrooms and kitchen—but a lot of the staircases and hallways were left untouched."

Luna nodded lightly, "I was always a bit surprised when I heard that you two had moved in here—I couldn't imagine either of you enjoying the space."

Hermione shook her head at the blunt honesty, "Neither of us really wanted to at first—but it was some place to be—some place safe. …Though I _may_ have shattered every window in the ballroom the first time I walked in—that was the first room to be reinvented. It's now a conservatory—Neville actually helped me put it together. It's our very own little forest. I took quite a bit of pleasure in turning it into something so remarkably un-Lucius."

"I do love the flowers—I'm glad that you were able to bring some life into a room which saw so much death."

Hermione didn't respond to the dark statement, wanting to neither continue that vein of conversation nor dismiss it.

After several more twists they finally arrived in the western corner or the manor, and the largest room. Hermione lightly opened the door, and felt a rush of relief tingle over her as a warm breeze swept out. Gesturing inside she watched as Luna entered ahead of her, a bright smile overtaking her calm expression as she took in the room.

Floor to ceiling windows covered two of the walls, while the middle wall arched out with walls of books grinning down at them. Rows and rows of books were fixated between them and the back wall, going far too high up for any muggle ladder to reach.

The walls were painted a pale green, while the shelves and window sills were all a yellow which matched Luna's dress perfectly. Hermione had taken her books and housed them in a spring time sanctuary.

Luna gasped as she looked around the glowing room, and Hermione couldn't help but notice how well the young woman seemed to fit inside of her sanctuary. "Do you like it?" Hermione asked with a smile.

"It's beautiful, Hermione—you are truly an artist."

Hermione blushed deeply, "Thank you."

Glancing up at the highest books a small frown marred Luna's peaceful expression, "How do you reach the highest books? I know several levitation charms, but it seems like they would make it difficult to properly peruse your collection."

Hermione's soft smile quickly turned into the adventurous grin which had surprised many a Weasley over the years, "What's your favorite book?"

Luna smiled confusedly, "Any book?"

"Probably."

"I always rather loved 'The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe', something about a little girl who is adamant something exists—and is correct—but no one believes her, appeals to me."

Hermione nodded silently before loudly whistling. Luna glanced around confused, but smiled as an afghan rug came flying into view. "A flying carpet?" she whispered.

Hermione nodded quickly before sitting on the rug, and offering a hand to Luna. Luna stepped up carefully. "Muggle classic fantasy," Hermione said happily and the rug sped towards the far end of the shelves. It slowed down in front of a colorful collection of books and Hermione urged it ever so slightly higher. Reaching out gently she pulled a book from the carefully kept collection and handed it to the smiling blonde. "It will take me to specific books, if I ask it to, that's the nature of the charm. But if I just want to browse a certain genre or time period, it will take me right there."

"This is brilliant magic, Hermione. I'm extremely impressed, though not at all surprised."

Hermione returned the novel to its place before urging the rug gently to the ground. "The boys all thought I was afraid of heights, until they saw this. Just because I don't like flying a broom, doesn't mean I'm afraid. I just need the proper motivation."

She shook her head lightly, suddenly realizing how off topic they had become, and she blushed. "I'm sorry, Luna. I hadn't meant to monopolize things and take us off track. You're here for a reason—I assure you, I'll pay you for your time here, even if I do get distracted occasionally."

Luna smiled warmly, "Never apologize for having a nice time, Hermione. I've been enjoying myself."

The moved to one of the numerous comfortable couches situated throughout the room, and Luna sat down. Hermione chose a slightly stiffer chair nearby. "So—guitar then?" she asked nervously, causing Luna to smile.

"Do you have a guitar?" she asked, and Hermione shook her head. "Well then, you'll have to use mine for the moment, though I do suggest that you purchase one to practice on."

"Sorry," she apologized, "I didn't even think."

Luna took her hand gently, "Please Hermione, stop apologizing. Now—why do you want to learn to play the guitar?"

Hermione blushed deeply, causing Luna to raise a questioning eyebrow. "Can—can we talk about that another time?" she asked, "It isn't exactly public knowledge yet."

"Uncontrollable musical passion it is, I'll be sure to print that in the Quib tomorrow," Luna winked.

Hermione laughed lightly, realizing that she would have to _eventually_ explain—she wouldn't be able to hide it much longer, "I'm—I'm pregnant," she stuttered quietly.

Luna's expression was lit up by a surprised smile, "Congratulations, Hermione. I'm sure you'll be a fantastic Mum."

Hermione's mouth formed a small 'O' of surprise. It was in that moment that she realized that no one had actually congratulated her yet—in fact, no one _knew _yet. The surprised congratulations threw her emotions slightly off kilter as she realized that, Draco's fear of fatherhood aside, she _was_ excited. In her own way.

She had always wanted to be a mother—before _true love_ had gotten in the way—so why shouldn't she be excited now? There was nothing she could do to change it—so she might as well enjoy it.

"Thank you," she smiled.

Luna then took her instrument out of its case, revealing a simple light colored guitar. "Music is important in a child's life—music and love, that's all there is." Glancing around her, she added, "And books I suppose, especially in your case." Hermione laughed lightly, and Luna gently handed the instrument to her.

She stared at the object in her arms, obviously mildly afraid. "I don't know how to—I don't know anything about playing," she said quietly.

"I know," Luna said with a reassuring smile, "But it's about time you learn. Hold it like this," she instructed, tilting Hermione's arms ever so slightly, and nestling the guitar gently against her. "And relax a bit," she added. Hermione sat painfully still and stiff in her chair, but tried to relax slightly at the words. Luna frowned; relaxation was something they would certainly need to work on. "I thought I would start by teaching you a couple of chords to practice."

"Chords?"

"They're the easiest way to piece a simple song together—I'll teach you the individual notes later. But if your goal is to simply express a simple song, chords are the place to start." Hermione nodded, and Luna continued. "Do you prefer muggle music?"

"I suppose—that's what I grew up on."

Luna smiled lightly, "I prefer it myself. We'll start with a G chord then, it's one of the most commonly used. Here, hold your hand like this."

She gently pulled Hermione's small fingers against the neck of the guitar, setting them in the correct positions. Hermione delicately strummed her fingers against the strings, and gave a small smile at the noise. "Very pretty," she whispered. "What can you play with that?" she asked curiously.

Luna chuckled, "Well nothing much with _just _that, but if you add in a few more chords—"

"Will you play me something?" Hermione eagerly interrupted.

"Aren't I supposed to be teaching you?"

Hermione blushed, "How could I possibly learn if I don't hear you play?"

Luna smiled softly and took the guitar back into her own hands, "Just this once," she whispered. A soft melody began teasing from the strings, and Hermione smiled as Luna's voice began to softly drift through the library. "Little Darlin, it's been a long cold lonely winter. Little Darlin, it feels like years since it's been here. Here comes the sun, Here comes the sun, and I say—it's alright."

Her voice was soft, much as it was when she was speaking, but it held a certain whimsical perfection for the tune, and Hermione felt her eyes tearing up slightly as the lyrics continued—this song, it meant something, whether or not Luna had realized it.

Hermione laid her head back slightly against the chair, curling her feet under her, and for the first time in years, she relaxed.

* * *

It seemed with every week, Hermione relaxed ever so slightly more. Her patent leather heels were replaced with carefully pedicured bare feet, and her formal suits with jeans. Her hair delightedly curled around her face, and her makeup lay forgotten on her bathroom counter.

Each week her smile widened at the brightly attired young woman, and each week she learned one more chord.

As quick of a learner as Hermione was—these lessons were something else entirely. Sure, she picked up the chords quickly enough, and enjoyed the sound, but each week she found herself increasingly distracted by the glowing presence across from her, and each week she begged for more lilting songs to flutter amongst her books.

"Just this once," Luna would declare each week, but when the next came she would still smile softly towards her toes as her well callused fingers flickered across the strings.

One such afternoon, several months after their initial meeting, found Hermione comfortably curled on the couch, her arms resting around her swollen abdomen and her head lazily set against Luna's shoulder. Luna sang a quiet song, soft enough that Hermione was the only person who could have heard it—if anyone else was around at all. Quiet enough that Draco and his friends across the hall couldn't hear them.

Luna didn't really know why the songs were being sung so quietly today—so timidly—but as Draco Malfoy strode into the room, she suddenly felt herself growing warm and uncomfortable. Puzzle pieces snapped violently into place, and she jumped guiltily.

The jilting stop of the music shook Hermione from her daze and she opened her eyes to find her husband staring at them. Jumping slightly, she moved away from Luna hastily, "Dra-Draco," she stuttered. "What are you doing here? You never come in to our lessons."

He studied them for a moment, and Luna felt her skin heat up all the more under his careful gaze. After a moment, he shook his head, glancing back towards his wife, "It doesn't look like much of a lesson," he said, an unspoken question floating between them.

"I wasn't feeling well today, so Luna was just playing me something before we continue."

With a shudder, Draco was at her side, "Are you okay?" he asked nervously, "The baby—is it?"

She shook her head quietly, "Everything is fine, just tired and sore."

His composure seemed to instantly return, the slightest pink drifting up from under the collar of his shirt. "Ah, well—I just wanted to let you know that the boys have gone home."

She nodded lightly and the blonde strode from the room quickly. As the door drifted shut behind him, Hermione stiffened slightly, moving towards a bookshelf and needlessly straightening books. "I'm—I'm sorry I got distracted again," she whispered. "I don't know what's come over me."

"You're pregnant," Luna said hazily, "You're allowed to get a bit tired—a touch distracted."

Hermione shook her head, "It's not really like me."

"No," Luna agreed.

"He—he never wanted children." Luna stared at her, eyebrows only slightly raised. She didn't know where this conversation had come from, but obviously it was something Hermione felt the need to say. "He never wanted children, and this pregnancy was more than unexpected. He—he hasn't changed his mind."

"He seemed worried," Luna offered kindly.

Hermione nodded, "He is, his mother had a rough pregnancy, apparently. So he worries that mine will be similar."

"So he obviously cares for your child," Luna continued.

"He does—he loves it, in his own way. But he doesn't _want _it. I—I find that I'm rather scared, Luna. It's ridiculous of course, I'm rich and have a supportive husband—but it's just not anything like I ever would have expected—I don't like the unexpected."

Luna's head tilted slightly, "And yet you answered an ad, posted on a muggle bulletin board."

"I blame it on the compulsion charm," Hermione said, a soft smile playing around her lips.

"Hermione—are you alright? You just seem—I don't really know. I have no words for it, but I want to know you're alright."

Hermione's head dipped slightly, the position causing her dark hair to trail lightly against her elbows. "I—" She struggled for a moment, words on the very tip of her tongue. She wanted to tell Luna. She wanted to tell her the truth about her mistakes, and her loveless marriage. She wanted to tell her that they didn't just sleep in different beds, but entirely different wings of the manor. She wanted to tell her how lonely she felt, and how scared she was that her child would never see real love in it's life. She wanted to—but she couldn't. She sighed, "Forget about it, Luna. I'll be alright. I just—could you work with me a bit longer? Teach me a love song?"

The last part was said so softly that Luna could barely hear it, and she felt her heart break for the young woman. Forcing her feelings down, she smiled in the soft way that seemed to comfort Hermione. "Next time" she answered, "I—I should go for now."

Hermione's eyes showed a flicker of disappointment before her chilled Malfoy image slid into place and she nodded, "Of course," she said with false cheerfulness. "Next week?"

Luna nodded before hurrying from the room, down the stairs, and out onto the carefully kept estate. She shook her head fiercely, trying to calm the racing thoughts in her head, and tame the panic which was oozing into her pores.

She hurried across the snow covered lawn, and everything felt wrong—every aspect of winter that she had ever loved, felt like a poison in her lungs and against her skin. The air which burned against her lungs, the pine needles crunching beneath her feet, even the snowflakes which fluttered against her legs and rested in her hair—it was all wrong.

It was all muddled and confused—all darkened by a tar like substance seeping into her nervous system and filling her arteries.

Tar—that's what it felt like.

But that wasn't what love was supposed to feel like, was it?

* * *

Hermione watched from the window as the blonde struggled through the snow covered estate—something was wrong. Hermione didn't know what she had said, but Luna had obviously been spooked. While she was usually the one to express every emotion which came to mind and every thought that flittered through, tonight she had shut Hermione out. She had been comfortable and safe, strumming her guitar without a care, and then suddenly—well, suddenly she wasn't Luna at all. She had found her own version of the Malfoy mask, and hidden away behind it.

"You _care_ about her—don't you?"

Hermione's eyes shot away from the window and the book she was holding clumsily toppled to the floor. She hurried to retrieve it, and he would have laughed at her expression, had it been any other moment. But it wasn't really a time for laughter.

"What?" Hermione asked; the confusion evident in her tone.

"You _care_ about her," he repeated carefully, "About Lovegood."

Hermione tilted her head slightly to the left, "Luna? Of course I care about her—she's been a friend for years. I mean, we were never close before, but I consider her a good friend now. What are you on about, Draco?"

He raised a platinum eyebrow, his legendary smirk making an appearance. "Hermione, love, think for a moment. You know _exactly _what I mean."

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed in thought, as they always did when she was trying to solve a particular puzzle. As her eyes skimmed through an imaginary text in her mind, he watched them widen. The answer was becoming clearer to her.

"You think I—no, Draco," she growled. "I'm not that kind of woman!"

He held up his hands in defense, "I didn't mean it _that_ way, calm down. I know you would never _cheat _on me. That's far too _Slytherin_ for your tastes—sneaking around, manipulation, clever excuses—you could never pull it off. You're brilliant, but you're rubbish at lying." He sighed deeply, running a hand through his own hair, "I just meant that you have feelings—no intent to _act _on said feelings. But you have them. I would recognize that look in your eyes, wouldn't I?"

Hermione wilted slightly, lowering herself slowly on to a chair. "Draco, I would never. Things with us—it's different—but I wouldn't desert you."

Draco let out a frustrated groan, "Damnit woman, I'm trying to have an honest conversation with you, try to keep up. I _know _you aren't planning some secret rendezvous with Loony, and I know you aren't planning on divorcing me. I know."

"Then why?"

"Because you are in love with her you dim twat!"

Hermione's eyes flashed angrily, "I'm not in love with her, and I'm _certainly_ not dim, you arrogant little worm!"

Draco snorted, "Have you seen yourself? You melt whenever she comes by! Do you know that I was in here last week? I was here the whole damn time you were _learning_. I was trying to find my annotated copy of Falco Aesalon's Annotated Chronicles when you came in. From the back of the shelves I watched her teach you an E-minor, and I watched you lean against her shoulders as she tinkered about on some muggle tune. I watched you blindly nod at her—that sparkling expression taking over your whole being as she weaved her musical web." He glanced down at his feet for a moment, before quietly admitting, "I was blessed by that expression for several years before everything faded, and I know it in your eyes, Hermione. I know that you care for her."

"I—I don't," Hermione argued weakly, before sighing heavily.

"Is it the fact that she's a woman that's bothering you?"

Hermione's face flushed bright red, "This is ridiculous, Draco. You're my husband. Man, Woman, or anything in between, it doesn't matter—I'm your wife, I'm having your child. That's all that matters."

Draco sat heavily on the nearest couch, "That's not all that should matter."

Hermione's head tilted in question, and he smiled softly. "I've been thinking about my Mum," Draco said with some difficulty. "My parents—they weren't exactly the model for what a good family should be—but before the Dark Lord returned, things weren't bad. My father wasn't the most caring of people, but he never mistreated me, and my mother—she was good. She had a cold exterior for the public—but she was good."

Hermione stayed silent, pressing down the questions which surged through her mind.

"My parents never loved each other. They didn't sleep in the same room, they didn't touch, they didn't _connect_. They got along well enough, but there wasn't any of the romance that a couple is supposed to have. Nothing like what we had in the beginning," he added quietly. "I love you, Hermione. As a friend, I love you. But we both know that we aren't like we used to be. I'm stifling you, and we are both constantly tip-toing around, that isn't how it's supposed to be."

"I know," she responded quietly.

"That's not the kind of life I want my child to live in," he said quietly. "I would rather they lived with two single parents—or better yet, two parents who have found real love—than live in a household that is frozen."

Scattered tears escaped Hermione, "Draco—I would never do something like this to you."

"Silly witch," he said with a fond smile, "Don't you understand? You're not doing anything—I am. This has nothing to do with Lovegood. This is me, saying that I want both of us to have our best chance at real happiness, and that I don't want to become my parents. This is me saying that I want our child to know real happiness."

Hermione gave a watery chuckle, "Do I even have a say in this?"

Draco smirked, "No. You would try and logic yourself out of finding real happiness, so I'm finding it for us. Consider it a Christmas present—I'm setting you free."

* * *

It had been three weeks since that conversation with Draco, and now Hermione found herself nervously pacing once more.

Instead of designer heels and perfectly sculpted hair, her feet were bare and her hair was magnificently charm-free, bouncing about her head enthusiastically. She wore a pair of old jeans, and a worn red sweater; her face was free of all makeup. She was simply her—nothing special.

Just like all those weeks ago, she paced in front of her new fireplace—nervously fidgeting as she waited to see her old school friend, anxiously wondering whether she looked alright, and if she would give off the correct impression.

The fact of the matter was, ever since that lesson two weeks ago, Luna had been different. More reserved—more careful. It nearly broke Hermione's heart, she still didn't know what she had done to upset the young blonde. Wherever the discomfort had stemmed from, Hermione hoped she could fix it soon. She missed their casual visits, and the feeling of Luna's hand directing hers. She missed the frolicking laughter which would dance from Luna's lips, and missed the way her eyes softly closed when she was playing a song she particularly loved.

Ever since that day, the day she had left early to struggle through the snow, thing had been different; and now things were about to become entirely different.

Today was their first lesson in her new home.

She hadn't told Luna about she and Draco. She hadn't explained anything—she had been too afraid, too unsure. But she wrote her after their most recent lesson and simply informed her that they would be meeting somewhere new from now on.

As she watched her old clock tick forward she found herself regretting that decision. She should have explained everything in the letter; it would have avoided the awkwardness of having to explain, 'Well yes, I _am_ living in a new home. You see, the father of my unborn child decided I would be better off pursuing _you_.' No, that certainly wouldn't end well.

A soft knock sounded on the door, and Hermione felt a wave of dizziness engulf her. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the handle, gently pulling it open. "Hey Luna," she said quietly, gesturing inside.

Luna walked in, her feet bare and her eyes wide.

"You're barefoot," Hermione commented lightly.

"Warming charm," Luna responded, her eyes drifting around the small entry way.

Draco hadn't had any urge to displace Hermione, but she had still insisted on finding her own place. She sought out a small cottage near a forest where she and Harry once found themselves camped out. It wasn't nearly as grand as Malfoy Manor, but with some careful charms she had expanded the den and made it large enough to house all of her books, and the whole home reflected her own personality beautifully.

Rich Fall colors glowed from the walls and the furniture, and small decorations could be found here and there. Mostly though, there were books, and pictures; pictures of she and the boys, pictures of the Weasley family, pictures of her little god-daughter Lily, and pictures of she and Draco (for he was still a close friend, if nothing else). There was even a picture of Luna tucked into one of the bookshelves, captured without her notice while she was strumming a song at some point, a peaceful smile peeking out from behind her golden hair.

"This home is beautiful, Hermione."

Hermione blushed lightly, "Thank you," she whispered. "It still needs a bit of work before the baby arrives, but I'm extremely happy with it."

Luna's head tilted confusedly, as she searched Hermione's expression, "So you're staying here then?"

Hermione nodded, her eyes focused on the hard wood floor. Luna lightly took her hand, instinctively pulling her into the adjacent room, her sitting room. She pulled her down on a cushy burnt orange sofa, and Hermione ducked her head, allowing her hair to slightly hide her face.

"Hermione, why are you staying here?"

She closed her eyes tightly, and Luna couldn't quite discern whether she was upset, or embarrassed, but either way, she was steadfastly avoiding Luna's gaze. "Draco and I—we're not together anymore."

It took Hermione a moment to realize exactly what she was seeing in the musician's eyes, and if she were to guess, she would say that she was one of very few people who had ever seen such an emotion come from Luna Lovegood. She shot up off the couch, wand in her hand, "That bastard," she snapped, heading towards the fireplace.

"Luna?"

"I don't care if you don't _want _children, you don't abandon your pregnant wife and send her off to some new home, because you can't handle that sort of commitment!" the usually peaceful girl fumed, "If the sonofabitch doesn't want children, I'll make damn sure he can't create anymore!"

She was about to step into the emerald flames of the floo when Hermione grabbed hold of her arm, pulling her back sharply, "Luna wait!"

The blonde looked back at Hermione, anger burning furiously in her eyes, "Damnit Hermione, let me do this. You deserve so much _better_."

"Luna, he didn't abandon me," Hermione said quickly, her heart melting at the declaration. "He admitted what I couldn't—that we were wrong—that it was all wrong."

A beat passed between them as Luna's eyes widened slightly, "But—you love him?"

Hermione's eyes drifted down again, "I did once—but that was some time ago. Ever since then—we've been frozen," she sighed heavily. "That's why I wanted you to play a love song that day, when we were talking—I just, I didn't see this happening. I thought we were just going to stay—well, frozen. I thought it was best for our child. I thought—I thought wrong. Wrong about everything."

Luna looked, for the first time that Hermione could remember, completely flabbergasted. Of all the crazy things she had spent her life believing in, this was something she simply couldn't fathom.

Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly, "So, now I'm here."

"Here," Luna echoed.

"Yea, and I was hoping we could continue our lessons," Hermione said carefully, causing Luna to look back up into her eyes.

Luna took a breath for a moment, trying to comprehend the situation, and yet when she exhaled she found herself asking, "Why are you taking these lessons, Hermione?"

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, "What do you mean? I wanted to bring music into my child's life, you know that."

Luna chewed her lip for a moment, considering, "But you don't seem to be all that interested in learning. You—you always want to hear me play. You learn a chord, and then get so distracted. Not that I mind—I just, I wanted to know what's going on."

Hermione's mouth went dry, and she felt another wave of dizziness wash over her. "I get distracted—like you said," she whispered. "I do want to learn, really."

Luna nodded mutely before standing up. "Hermione—I'm sorry, I need to go. I—I can recommend a very good teacher for you. She's muggle, but you'd learn a lot from her." Luna tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then hurried towards the door, leaving Hermione gaping behind her.

"Wait!" Hermione shouted, hurrying towards the entryway. "You're leaving? Why?"

Luna sighed, her head bent and her body facing the door. She turned around gracefully, looking carefully at Hermione. "Do you remember how I was in school? How I spoke just about every thought that came to mind, no matter how awkward or unwelcome it was?"

Hermione nodded lightly.

"I haven't changed, Hermione. I mean—I can control it now, when I need to. But I still prefer to just say what I'm thinking. I actively avoid situations where I need to hold my tongue," she said softly.

"Why do you hold your tongue? Why don't you just say what you're thinking?"

Luna smiled softly, "You of all people should know that, weren't you always the most uncomfortable with my rare brand of honesty? Sometimes, however well-meaning you are, the truth is uncomfortable—it's hurtful. It took me a long time to learn to hold those sorts of thoughts in, but now I can. I just—I don't like to be in those places, I don't like to imprison my mind that way."

"And there is something—hurtful, which you can't say to me?" Hermione said, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

Luna shook her head, "Never, dearest. Just something—unwelcome."

Hermione took a step forward, "Luna, I'm sorry if I did anything—"

Luna shook her head, "You didn't."

Luna turned away again, her eyes settled towards the wooden floorboards. She quietly turned the doorknob, and slipped back into the blustering snow. As the heavy door clicked firmly into place, so did Hermione's heart. She couldn't let this happen.

Tumbling out into the snow, she called out to the willowy blonde in the distance. Luna turned around quickly, her eyes wide with surprise.

Hermione hurried towards the barefoot blonde. "Please stay," Hermione plead, taking a slim hand in her own, "P-Play me a love song?"

Luna's eyes went wide, her hand no longer trying to pull away from Hermione's, instead delicately enfolding itself. Hermione, in an act of true Gryffindor courage, leaned forward and lightly brushed her lips against Luna's, whispering, "So, why don't you tell me about those unwelcome thoughts."

* * *

Six Months Later

* * *

"Do you think I should have made it more feminine?" Hermione asked nervously, glancing around the carefully decorated nursery.

Luna laughed lightly from behind her, "Heteronormativity is overrated."

"Heteronormativity, really?" Hermione snorted.

Luna just shrugged, a happy smile drifting across her face, "It's a lovely nursery, Hermione. And there is no reason why you should have gone with the stereotypical pink lacy girl's nursery. I like it."

Hermione nodded imperceptibly, surveying her hard work. She had taken the plain old guest room and turned it into a nursery out of her dreams. The walls were painted with a mural of a soft overgrown field, charmed to blow in the breeze. Rabbits, chipmunks, and butterflies would make the occasional appearance from within the wild grasses, and the sun was charmed to move as it would through the day. Sunset and Sunrise were clearly marked, and a bright moon would rise each night—one which would accurately depict all of the phases, naturally.

She had even managed to charm a biplane into making a turn about the room every few days, along with a practicing Quidditch team.

It was a truly magical room, and Luna had fallen in love with it as soon as she had seen it. Draco loved it as well, and had actually been the one to suggest the Quidditch team. Hermione had thought he would prefer a more traditional nursery, but he had been surprisingly delighted by the entire design.

She had designed something similar in his home, with a forest rather than a field. She didn't want their daughter to prefer her home to his, that wouldn't have been right. The forest's enormous looming trees filtered sunlight patterns throughout the room, and left just enough space open that the sun and moon was visible in that room as well. There was a troublesome stag which would occasionally wander through, as well as a charming badger. A river could be seen just beyond several of the trees, which allowed otters to frolic delightfully against the current.

All in all, she absolutely adored both of the scenes, and could only hope that her little girl would feel the same.

Her little girl.

Hermione shook her head slightly at the thought; they had found out several months ago that _she_ was a _she_, and Hermione still couldn't quite wrap her head around the idea that any day now she was going to have a little girl.

Predicting her train of thought, Luna came of silently from behind, wrapping her arms softly around Hermione and her stretched abdomen, "You're going to be a brilliant mother, Hermione."

"Do you think so?" Hermione asked nervously, "I know I can be a bit controlling at times, a bit of a perfectionist—I don't want to force that on my daughter."

"You won't," Luna assured her, "You don't try and force that on me."

Hermione looked back towards the blonde, tightening the grip on her arms ever so slightly and kissing her gently. They had been seeing each other for nearly six months, and Hermione couldn't remember ever being happier. She was cautious, admittedly. She didn't want to make the mistake of moving too quickly and trapping herself again, but going slowly wasn't easy for Hermione. It was as if a lightbulb had suddenly flickered to life above her head, and she _knew_, this imaginative blonde was the person she had always needed to find. Everything else had just been leading here. "You're perfect," she responded quietly, and she meant it. There wasn't anything she would want to change about the woman whose arms were currently encircling her.

Luna let out a jingling laugh, "Far from, dearest. I know perfectly well that my—shall we call it spontaneity?—my spontaneity drives you absolutely mad."

Well—there was that. "I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said in mock denial, "I'm the most spontaneous person you've ever known! I called you didn't I? Decided to learn to play the guitar on a whim?"

"You still haven't gotten all that far," Luna laughed.

Hermione pouted, "It's not my fault you're so damned distracting all the time."

A light blush colored Luna's cheeks, "I'm _not_ distracting."

"How would you know? You're immune. And besides, I'm not doing all the badly, I've nearly mastered that one song!"

Luna looked at her skeptically, "I'm sure you'll get better, you just have to keep practicing."

Hermione frowned, "You don't believe me." She shook her head slightly and stepped away from Luna, taking her hand firmly and dragging her towards the small couch in the corner of the nursery, "You sit here."

Luna did as she was asked, refraining from asking any questions along the way. Hermione hurried, as much as she _could _hurry, from the room and came back moments later with Luna's guitar tucked safely under her arm. Sitting in the rocking chair, she positioned the guitar against her, and placed her fingers carefully on the strings for the opening chord.

The tune was rough, that goes without saying, but it was easily discernible as she slowly strummed. Her voice lacked the confidence which Luna's had, or the practice, but it was still beautiful. It was natural. "Little Darlin, it's been a long cold lonely winter," she sang, "Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here."

She looked up into the blue eyes which watched her, and felt a blush drift over her, "Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say, It's alright."

Months ago, when Luna had first sung that song to her, Hermione had felt her world shift. That was why she had insisted on learning it, why she had worked so hard. She didn't know quite why it seemed so important, but she knew she had to be able to play it. Now, as she carefully strummed, preparing to sing the next line, she felt her world shift once more.

In fact, it shifted so noticeably that Hermione dropped the guitar to the ground and lurched forward suddenly, a groan on her lips. "Hermione?" Luna exclaimed, hurrying forward, "Are you alright."

Hermione looked up, her eyes wide and surprised, "I—I think she's coming."

* * *

"_Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright…"_

* * *

**The End.** **Thank you for reading, and please consider reviewing if you have a moment. I would love to hear your thoughts. 3**

**Dedicated to the talented and lovely, CherriiMarina, whom has been pushing me to finish this story for months, and encouraging its every word. (Unless the word is misspelled in which case, she probably isn't encouraging that particular word…)**


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